


Synthetic XIV: Gauntlet

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Past Abuse, Violence, future hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:10:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: The last part. Thank you all for the comments and kudos, it's been a blast re-posting this here. I hope the end lives up to the rest... :)





	

Synthetic XIV: Gauntlet  
Kitty Fisher

 

The lock finally gives with a sharp click, and Dean lets out a breath, dragging his gaze away from the deserted street to where Sam’s straightening, one hand easing the door open.

“Come on.” Sam’s words are little more than a whisper as he steps over the threshold, eyes scanning ahead, leaving Dean to follow, closing the door securely behind them.

Just being in the rectory makes Dean’s skin crawl. Wood polish, incense and unadulterated evil. Though he’s probably imagining the last one, as he hadn’t felt anything weird the first time he’d been here. Bad, sure. But bad as in a pervo-priest, not bad as in a demon. So much for Winchester instincts.

But right now every cell in his body seems to be having an intuitive moment.

“You okay?” Sam’s hand brushes his arm and Dean swallows, his head jerking a nod of acknowledgement at the concerned whisper.

“Sure.” He shrugs. 

Sam nods. His skin looks pale under its tan. Pale, and strained around the eyes. Dean winces in sympathy. Not only was all the psychic shit unreliable, it left a blinding headache in its wake. He knows – and he’d only gotten the fall-out from Sam’s vision, not the full brunt of it. 

“Dean, are you really sure this is the place we saw?”

“Yeah.” If Dean closes his eyes he can still see the image the vision had flashed at them – their father, screaming as flames licked around his body, the surroundings unmistakably the underground chapel where Dean had been taken by the demon-priest. “I’m not likely to forget it, am I? Besides, you were here too – don’t you remember?”

“I was in a hurry! You were bleeding all over the church floor and I just wanted out.” Sam whispers the words, their sibilance intensified by his anger. Which isn’t directed at Dean. At the memory, maybe. Or at the reason they’re here at all.

“Trust me, this is it.”

“Great.” Swinging the bag off his shoulder, Sam starts unloading. The sawn-off he passes to Dean, tucking the pistol into his own belt. Everything else gets packed into their pockets – salt-grenades, holy water and crucifixes. Both of them are already wearing amulets. “Which door?”

“This one.”

They stand in front of the door, where Dean had hesitated what feels like a lifetime ago. He’s almost as confused now. Every thought painfully extracted from the morass of emotion he’s suddenly turned into. Dean the emo-kid. Right. 

But for all his cynicism, he looks at Sam, and feels better (grounded, warmer, eased) when Sam looks back and smiles. His own lips twitch reflexively in return.

“Come on then, brother. Time to rock and roll…”

Dean leads the way, opening the door and stepping through into darkness, hand searching for the light-switch as Sam steps in behind him and closes the door carefully. Very loud in the silence, the lock clicks home. 

In an instant, a blizzard rages around them.

The air howls, ripping at their skin and clothing, with a whirling rush of air that’s laced with ice, minute crystals that sting and cut exposed flesh. Arms up, covering their faces, breath stolen from lips already turning blue with cold, they stumble against each other, tumble into the walls, buffeted by the force of the storm, colliding limb against limb, shotgun dropping from Dean’s numb fingers, panicking until somehow the door is there, and Sam fumbles the handle open and finally they stagger through, back into the hall.

Together they slam the door shut.

Silence. Ears ringing, they pant for breath and stare, wide-eyed, at each other.

“Shit”

Sucking in warm air, Dean feels as if his lungs are thawing. There’s ice crusted around his lips and he brushes it away. “Yeah. Freaky fucking demons.” He shakes out his jacket, showering the floor with droplets of ice-water, watching while Sam does the same. “Guess they don’t want us down there.”

“Or they’re just playing hard to get.” Sam pushes his hands through his wet hair, scraping soaking tendrils off his face. “Man.” He takes a deep breath. “Least we know this is the right place.”

“Told you.”

“Yeah, didn’t doubt you for a moment, brother.” He ignores Dean’s snort. “Guess we could try the front door?”

Dean nods. Then grimaces. “If this way in is booby-trapped, then the way through the church will be too. Like this. Or worse.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Or sons.” Dean takes a breath. “We have no idea what’s going down here.”

“Apart from that Dad’s at the end of it.”

“Or at the root.”

“Dean…” Sam shakes his head, slowly, more in fear than disbelief.

“Come on – what we saw, it was him screaming in the chapel room, yeah?”

“Dean…”

“Okay, okay, just humor me – so we both saw the same thing. But what we saw, was it real?”

“What, you having doubts now?” Lips thinning, Sam reaches out and grabs Dean’s shoulder, his fingers holding on, hard. “Listen, everything I’ve ever seen, it’s always been real. Every single goddamned thing…”

“Yeah.” Dean winces as the fingers dig into the remains of a bruise. The hand drops away. “But you know? Me? I’ve never seen anything before this. All the psychic-boy stuff? That’s been your part of the deal, not mine. Creepy-assed weird shit, it took me a while to believe it, but now I do – when it’s yours. This? I’m the one with no imagination, remember? Why should I believe what I see? What if it’s all some demon messing with my head?”

“Dean…”

“But it could be!”

“You think it’s not dad in there? Is that it?”

“I don’t know!” His hands push wildly at the air before he suddenly stills. “I just don’t trust myself.”

“Then trust me.”

And that feels like a knife, twisting in his gut. “I do. Always.” But that’s not what he means, and he flounders, trying to find the right words. “But, it might be some demon conjuring the image of dad, and not be the real thing.” Which isn’t really what he means either, but Sam’s already nodding.

“Sure. Or it might be.”

“Fuck.” Dean bites his lip. He wants to walk away, to be in a motel, stripping off his soaking clothes and stepping into a hot shower – with Sam. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want to try and work out reality from illusion, good from evil.

“Come on. You believe that snowstorm behind the door.”

Which almost makes him laugh. “Yeah, and I’m not up for a vacation in the Catskills any time soon. Look, I’m not saying we’re imagining this crap. We saw Dad screaming...” He pulls fingers through his damp hair, gestures hopelessly.

“And it was here, in this place. Which means we go in there and find out the truth.” Sam steps close, lifts a hand and cups Dean’s face. They stand for a long moment, staring into each other’s eyes. “It’s what we do, isn’t it.”

Which isn’t a question but Dean nods. He feels so very weary. And Sam’s hand is so warm. “Sorry.”

“Don’t. If it’s dad, we rescue him. If it’s some demon, we blow him away.”

“Sounds simple.” But what if their father _is_ the demon? That’s the question he can’t find the words to ask. The question he hates himself for even thinking.

“Yeah.” The hand tightens; a thumb strokes just under Dean’s jaw-line. “And then we walk away. From all this. You and me.”

His whole body clenches in reaction. With something too like yearning. And Dean realizes that what he’s afraid of is the possibility of not getting beyond where they are. Not the standing in a church part. But the rest of it. That somehow their father will find a way to keep them caught up in the twisted shit that is his life. All the dreams of New York or London or fucking Timbuktu – they’ll be nothing. Not if they can’t escape the life their father’s designated for them. They need to cut away. Real father, imaginary father, demon father – the possibilities don’t matter. It’s the dealing with it, here and now. Finishing it – and walking away with no regrets.

And this year, Christmas will be in July.

The hopelessness of it all almost makes him laugh. But, Jesus, Rome wasn’t built in a day, or some such crap.

Somehow Sam understands, almost as if he’s been listening to Dean’s interior conversation. For he leans in close to Dean’s cheek, and his breath is soft, warm over chilled skin. “If he’s possessed, we exorcise him. If he’s a prisoner, we rescue him. If he’s a demon, we do our job. We end it here, one way or another.”

“Right.”

“This is what we do, Dean.”

“And this is where we find out if we’re any good.”

“You are such an optimistic asshole.” Sam grins, and the tension strips away. He kisses Dean’s mouth, just a brush of skin on skin and then he moves, straightening his shoulders. “So, once more unto the breach…”

“Hell, I love it when you talk dirty…” Dean almost pulls off the cocky grin that accompanies the words. Enough so that Sam sighs in mock resignation. Then his hand is on the door handle, and he turns it, opening the door cautiously.

It’s like stepping into deep winter. Clutching each other they push forward, battling the wind that howls around them, and the sheer cold that numbs their ears and lips. Dean stumbles over something on the floor and, bending down, finds the shotgun he’d dropped before. The metal burns his hand, and he pulls his sleeve down over his fingers and tries again, this time picking it up, doubtful if there’s any point, if the trigger isn’t frozen solid. They stagger down the stairs, skin burning, boots slippery on the ice-sheened carpet. Dean feels blindly forward, stepping down cautiously, one riser at a time, until the steps end and there’s another door. He pauses, and Sam walks into his back, jostling him, pushing him forward, so his hand catches the door-handle and they spill through into a hall.

And into heat. The ice in their hair and lashes melts immediately. For a moment it’s a relief, blessedly warm after the freeze that made their bones judder. Then, instead of shivering, they’re sweating.

“Man…” Dean looks at his brother, seeing sweat already trickling down his face, steam rising from his shirt. “What next? A plague of fucking locusts?”

“Don’t tempt it. And besides, how _do_ locusts fuck?”

“Hungrily. Come on, before we bake.” Already he can feel his lips cracking, and the soft membrane in his mouth drying up. They’re both soaked to the skin, a combination of melted ice and the sweat that’s pouring off them in sheets. Dean drags his sleeve over his eyes and peers into the shadows. “This way.”

They stagger to another door, Sam wincing as he turns the handle. Together they hesitate on the threshold, staring at the long corridor that lies in front of them. It’s just the same as Dean remembers, cold and dark, with heavily framed paintings glowing softly against each wall. There’s something else this time. Nothing he can see. It’s eerie. Enough to make them both stand still, skin crawling. But heat sears their backs and they’ve no option. Even if they’re being herded here, this is where they have to go. Forward – before the crisping ends of Sam’s hair catch fire or their clothes melt. Before they burn.

Sam tries to push past Dean, but in the end they go through together. Breathless, as if flames are licking at their heels, they slam the door closed on the appalling heat.

Leaning on the door, every sense screaming in awareness, they stand quite still.

No extremes of heat or cold. No sound apart from their own ragged breaths. Just a barbed silence; as if the air itself is veined through with tension.

The rows of paintings are seemingly backlit, luminous against dark wallpaper. Something catches Dean’s eye. He feels Sam’s arm jerk where it touches his own and Sam mutters softly. “Jesus…”

The images within each ornate frame are moving. Writhing.

Dean looks into the nearest – and sees the glistening, naked body of the tortured Christ arch away from the wood it’s nailed to. Blood trickles down the contorted face. It all looks so real. As if they’re staring into reality. Fascinated, Dean lifts his arm and reaches out. But before he can touch a finger to the image, Sam’s hand clasps his wrist.

“Just in case…” Sam whispers. His fingers hold Dean a little too tightly. It takes a moment for him to let go. Dean nods and looks at him, seeing his face, under its coating of sweat, drawn tight with revulsion.

Sam’s fingers uncurl slowly, and Dean lets his arm fall back to his side. Together, they stare grimly at the agony being enacted before them. Then Sam nudges him. “Come on.” He grimaces. “Stay here too long and we might end up as artist’s models.”

Which is so appalling a thought that they both immediately start walking. Taking slow steps along, waiting for the next load of crap from whichever demon has set all this up. The horror that suffuses the corridor makes their skin crawl. Dean can’t help glancing into each painting. But each one is equally obscene. Each image a peep show of horror. Or torture. Each image twisting with pain, slick with sweat and blood. Blood that in places is already dripping over the carved wood frames to drip onto the varnished floorboards.

They make it to the third painting, flinching as a whip casually rips a pale back to shreds. Another step and they’re hardly breathing, speeding up to make the nauseating images pass more quickly.

But then the door handle – still five yards in front of them – begins to turn. And slowly the door starts to open.

There’s nowhere to run, so they stand still, hands brushing as Dean lifts the shotgun. They’re both breathing through heat-dried lips, adrenaline spiking into their veins. Anticipating anything…but the girl who slips through the opening doorway.

A girl, who begins to walk gracefully towards them. She’s beautiful. Painfully familiar. Dressed in white linen, tall, her face full of warmth and love – the image of loss incarnate.

“Jess…”

At this moment, Dean could destroy the world and all that’s in it, just for this single horror never to have happened. He can hear the pain in Sam’s raw voice. Hear his total belief in this as reality.

He shakes his head, cursing. “Sam, she’s not real.”

“Hello Sam, baby.”

“Jess… Oh, God…”

“I’m so lonely, Sam… I need you. Come to me – come with me.”

“Sam! “ Dean turns fast and sees his brother’s face stone-white with pain. “Please… Sam, she’s not real!”

“Jess, oh my God…”

“Come with me, Sam – hold me! I need you!”

“Shut up! Sam, please, this isn’t Jess. It isn’t –”

“Dean…” Jess’s body, Jess’s voice. He never loved her and still the image makes him want to cry. Dean cringes as Jess – the creature that looks like Jess – looks at him, her face immeasurably sad. “How can you say I’m not real? Even though I know you never wanted me. Why were you so jealous? Why couldn’t you let your little brother have a little happiness?” She sways as she walks, lithe and slim, her body almost visible under the thin, clinging shift. “You were so resentful. You hated me, Dean. Hated the fact that Sammy loved me more than he loved you. And because your baby brother got a life of his own, a future…”

“No…” Dean shakes his head, hating the words, hating the _thing_ that’s twisting him up so easily, twisting the past. “Shut your mouth. You know that’s a lie.”

“You just wanted him for yourself. But I got him first!”

“Sam loved Jess - the real Jess. I never had a problem with her!” He’s not quite sure why he’s arguing with the filthy thing, but he needs Sam to hear the truth.

“Yeah?” Her smile lifts, salacious and sneering all at once. “And now you’ve got him all to yourself. Is he still a really good fuck?.” Her gaze shifts, focuses past him onto Sam. “Sweet and gentle, but damn, he could keep it up for hours. Make me come time and time again. Mmm, I’m getting horny just remembering…”

“Jesus…just shut up!” Dean flinches, but it’s as if Sam can’t hear the words, or the venom behind them. Or even see how unlike the real Jess this creature is. Sure, she’s the spitting image on the outside, but inside? No way near.

Sam’s not reasoning anything. “Jess…” He steps forward, eyes fixed on the figure before them, mouth open as he repeats her name in unconscious litany.

With a smile that shows her white, even teeth, the creature stops taunting Dean and goes back to pleading. “Come to me, Sam! I’m cold, so cold and frightened.”

“Oh, God, Jess, I’m coming…”

“Sam!” Dean reaches for him, his fingers tightening on Sam’s shirt, but Sam pulls away. Towards Jess. No. It _isn’t_ Jess! Dean jerks his head, shakes it, trying to fix on the reality, not on the pull the image is exerting – the pull to believe that this is a real girl, that this is the real Jess, whole and tragic and desperately in need. He takes a deep breath, stabilizing himself. _She isn’t real_ She’s evil. Simply another thing being thrown at them, and one equally damaging as ice or furnace heat. Perhaps more so. Sam’s pain is tangible. Dean can feel it emanating from his brother in waves built of misery and guilt. He shivers, heart bleeding for what Sam’s endured, for what he went through to get to this – where every wound is being ripped open, every scar left bleeding. 

All for nothing. All for a mirage conjured by some fucker of a demon who’s probably laughing at them right now. Dean sucks in air through clenched teeth, and fury burns through him. As Sam goes to walk past him, Dean turns and lifts his hands, holding on to Sam’s shirt, pushing him back. Or trying to. Because it’s as if his strength is as insubstantial as cobweb. “Sam, snap out of it!” But Sam might as well be possessed. Maybe is. Dean tries to body-slam him into the wall. It’s like slamming into a statue, one that slides easily out of his grip.

“Sam, come to me…” The thing that looks like Jess is smiling, love radiating from her face as she beckons Sam on. And Sam goes to her. His eyes fixed, his mouth silently repeating her name. Mesmerized. Jesus…

“Goddamn it!” Dean takes four fast paces, puts himself in front of Sam. “Sam! Sam! Get a grip! It’s not Jess!”

“Jess, oh my God… Jess, I’m so sorry…”

He looks drugged – and old with pain and loss. Whatever’s going to happen when he goes with the creature, Dean’s not sure. But it can’t be anything good, and Dean’s not going to let it happen anyway.

“Come with me, Sam!” She backing away, beckoning Sam forward. “I need you so much!”

“And so do I. Man, I’m sorry…” And Dean brings up his knee, ramming it hard into Sam’s groin, wincing in sympathetic pain as Sam jack-knifes forward, a high pitched keening sliding from clenched teeth as he falls onto his knees, half supported in Dean’s arms as he too hits the floor.

After a long moment, Sam coughs out one half-whispered word. “Dean?”

Which is enough to make Dean want to whoop aloud. Because that’s Sam. Sam back in the here and now – the creature’s lost him. Whatever spell it was is broken. Almost giddy with relief, with sweat tricking down his back, Dean grins, and looks back over his shoulder. “Hey, get lost!”

“No!” Her beautiful face contorts with fury.

“Yeah – go back to Hell.”

“Sam?” She tries one last time. “Please, baby?”

Sam slowly lifts his head, and just snarls at her.

She knows then that she’s failed. Screaming in fury she rips at her own face, howling as her nails dig into pale skin, tearing it open. 

Turning, Dean pushes himself in front of Sam, hiding him, trying to block his sight. But he can’t look away himself, for whatever sent her is now destroying her. The beautiful girl is gone, stripped away, leaving a monster with skin that’s melting, blistering from its bones. It screams, rage and agony twisting together until vocal cords liquefy and there’s only the sound of bones clattering together as it darts forward, bloodied fingerbones clawing towards Sam.

“You fucking bitch, leave him alone!” One-handed, Dean drags Sam back and, with the other, lifts the shotgun and fires point blank. The frenzied skeleton jerks, falls, blood streaming around it as it lands on its knees. Head tilting in a parody of supplication, it starts to crawl.

Until the second shot takes the top of its skull clean off, bloody teeth snapping together before the whole monstrous thing disintegrates into dust.

The gun falls to the floor. Dean’s shaking so much he can’t get his finger free of the trigger. He lets it stay there. Turning, he pulls Sam tight to him, holding him one-handed, his own eyes screwed shut, bile churning in his belly. Sam’s panting as if he’s run a mile at speed and Dean can only hold him, and – when Sam’s hands slowly lift and curl around him – let himself be held.

He’s not sure how much more they can take. More than anything Dean wants to walk away. Walk away with Sam and not look back – but he knows he can’t. _They_ can’t. Not yet. Soon though. Very soon.

Mexico sounds good.

Tequila and fiesta and Sam fucking him for hours, both of them holed up in some beach-front shack that backs on to a village where no one knows them and no one cares and there are no fucking demons or ghosts or anything except mindlessly just living through every day.

Today has to be got through first. You have to earn the good times – which is something he can almost _hear_ his father saying and that’s not a good thing. He shakes himself. “Sam?”

After a while, Sam stirs with a single, tendon-wracking shudder. “Dean?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Dean closes his eyes at the hopelessness he hears in Sam’s voice.

“What – what was she…”

“Nothing. Nothing worth thinking about.” Eyes squeezed tight, he clings to Sam. “And it wasn’t a she, it was an it. A fucker of a demon playing with you.” He rocks back and forth, wishing he could burn the cinema-sharp images from his mind. Wishing he could do the same for Sam…burn it all away. Everything. Hell, he’d give Sam up if doing so would wipe the slate clean. If that one selfless act could take all the pain and make as if it never happened? He’d do it. Reality though is what they’ve got, and no amount of selfless acts will make it any better. Not for him, and not for Sam. Dean knows the truth, that this pain is real and part of both their lives, and wishing won’t change a thing. Nor will being selfless. Which is just as well. Because he’s not sure he could survive without Sam, not anymore.

“Dean?”

He sniffs, loudly. “You OK?”

“Yeah.” The fingers clinging to Dean tighten. Then Sam sits back, one hand still between his legs, the other falling to his knee, lying there where it clutches at his own flesh instead of Dean’s. “I’m sorry…”

That jerks Dean’s head up. He frowns at his brother. “Ok, dumbass, why’re you sorry?”

“For falling for that… that….” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Christ, you’d think I was some stupid fucking amateur!”

“Oh.” Dean thinks for a moment, watches carefully for signs that Sam’s being brave, or pretending, or some equally likely shit. But nothing. He takes a breath that actually seems to reach his lungs. “Hell, no need to apologize – she was good. I’m sorry too – that I couldn’t think of any other way to distract you.”

“At least you thought of something!” Sam shudders. “And I’ll be fine. Any minute now.”

Which is enough to make Dean smile ruefully. “Sure you will be. Any minute.”

Sam groans softly. “Oh, just shut up.” Wincing, he eases denim from around his abused groin, then sits back, shifting around so he’s leaning against the wall. After a second he pats the floor at his side, and Dean scoots over and joins him, hands on his bent knees. 

Wiping a sleeve over his own face, Dean waits. After a few minutes Sam’s body relaxes. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks. How could I be such an idiot!”

“Stop beating yourself up. It’s alright.” Yeah. Dean cringes at his own glib words. Everything is fine and hunky-dory, oh yeah. Everything is alright. But doubt is like something hollow in his belly. He wants to tell Sam that he didn’t hate Jess, wasn’t jealous. Because he wasn’t. It was only afterwards, after the demon, that everything changed. Because it was only then that he realized he had any chance at all with Sam.

“What’s up?”

Trust Sam to notice. Great. “Nothing.”

“Dean…” And Sam shifts slightly so he can look into Dean’s eyes. Whatever he sees there makes him sigh. “Stop it. That nonsense it spouted? It was all lies. I do know that.”

Which is so simply stated a truth that Dean feels a prickling behind his eyes. He thumps a fist into his own thigh. “Jees, they know the right buttons to push. For both of us.”

“Dude, you got it right there. Don’t –” He stops Dean’s fist with his own, stops him hurting himself again. “Even if you had been jealous, it doesn’t matter now. None of it matters, it’s all stuff we just have to live with. I’ll always love Jess. Always miss her. But I know she’s gone, and why.”

“Sam, If I could, I’d change what happened. All of it. You have to know that!”

“I know. But you can’t. ”

The hollow place in Dean’s belly seems to expand. Then he looks into Sam’s eyes, and all the appalling misery of Jess’s death, all the guilt and terror at his helplessness against fate and demons is there on show. But so is trust. And love. Certainty too. Of and for Dean.

“So you live with it?”

“Yep. Both of us.” Sam smiles. “You and me, pardner.”

“And a fistful of demons?”

“Yeah. Through that door I expect.”

“Great.” Dean slaps his hands on his knees. “Yeah, well, ‘nough of this. Come on.” Staggering upright, he offers Sam a hand and hauls him to his feet. “One more door.”

“Then we’re out of here.”

Bending down, Dean picks up the shotgun and reloads, snapping the barrel into place. “And now…”

“Showtime.”

If they had armor they’d be tightening the straps. As it is they simply grin at each other, feral as wolves, and then walk to the door, opening it up into the darkness beyond.

*

Incense, candle-wax and evil. The chapel is silent, dark apart from a single candle flickering on the stone altar that sits in the center of the room. Their father is sitting on the same altar, shoulders back, gazing straight ahead. He doesn’t so much as blink when they walk in.

Gut twisting into knots, Dean walks forward. “Dad?”

No answer. Sam’s at his side, leaning in to Dean, though his eyes too are fixed on the still figure. “Is it really him?”

Dean has no idea. It walks like a duck, talks like a duck… but this version of their dad isn’t doing anything at all. “Hey, Dad!” This time he almost shouts, but there’s still no response.

“Shit. Guess at least he’s not being burned alive.”

“Pollyanna.”

“Wait until this is over and I’ll get you back for that.”

“Ooh, I’m scared now!”

“Shut up, Sam!” The banter’s too false. Wrong. Better than screaming – which is what he knows he wants to do – but not much. “What do we do? Fuck, how do we know it’s even him?”

Sam stares at their father hard, then steps up to him. “Dad?” Nothing. He seems to steel himself, then leaning forward, touches one arm.

Still nothing. “And?”

“Nothing.” 

“What! Nothing human?”

“No! Just no reaction.”

“Great.” Dean shrugs off the way his skin is crawling and steps past Sam, putting his fingertips to the figure’s solid neck. “There’s a pulse and he’s warm.” The beat of blood is strong, steady. Dean lets his hand drop. “OK, so it’s alive. But is it Dad?”

Sam frowns in concentration. After a pause, he nods. “I think so. He’s… asleep.”

“Asleep! Oh, perfect.” 

“Or unconscious. Or mesmerized. Or drugged.”

“Thanks. Come on, what is this – multiple-fucking-choice?”

“No. It’s called I-don’t-know’a-fucking-thing!”

They’re hissing at each other. Hands gesturing, slapping. Until a cough stops them both dead in their tracks.

They look up together. Instantly wary. Both staring at a creature leaning against the wall. A woman. Or something that’s female. Maybe. Something with breasts anyway. Dean breathes out a single obscenity.

Sam takes in a sharp breath. “Oh, yeah. Double that.”

Dean’s mind wants to drift, but he forces himself to focus. He really doesn’t want to. Not on his catatonic father or the freako demon who’s just standing there, looking at them while rubbing two of her claws together. Like a tailor feeling the weight of a piece of cloth. Or a hungry demon considering how best to devour two humans. 

When she moves they both jerk back, the shotgun lifting in Dean’s hand, though he knows it’s useless here. Against this. She smiles, and he lowers it, watching as her forked, agile tongue licks her darkly painted lips.

“So, even after everything he’s done, you still care enough to want him back.” Despite the scorn in her words, she sounds unbelievably sultry; as if sex drips from her voice. Succubus, maybe? Whatever it is, Dean feels a hideous prickle of arousal behind his balls. 

He counters it, putting up a wall of insolence. “If we say ‘please’ can you wrap him to go?”

There’s a laugh, and this time Dean knows Sam has to feel the undercurrent of heat too. Suggestion, maybe. Or just _her_. “Now, if only things were that simple. And you hadn’t killed Ameus…”

“Ah. Guess you mean the priest. Was he a friend of yours?” Sam asks the question sweetly. As if innocent’ll cut it here.

“Friend, lover, consort – fellow tormentor of all things belonging to John holier-than-thou Winchester.” She hisses, and Dean starts to sweat. He doesn’t want to think about it, but his cock is thickening, as if arousal is something he’s simply breathing in and reacting to – with no control over whatsoever 

She smiles, candle-light glistening off her scales as she scents the air. “Lovely. You can feel me. Such a susceptible boy. Maybe I’ll enjoy this after all…” Her languid glance turns to Sam, but her mouth lifts in a moue of disappointment. “But little brother? Not so much. Perhaps, merely for encouragement, he needs the teensiest lick of punishment.”

At _lick_ and _punishment_ , Dean shivers, his blood reacting instantly to the suggestion that’s been laced through the words. He growls, lifts the shotgun – only to have it ripped from his hand.

It clatters onto the floor, skidding across to end up against a far wall.

“Better. Didn’t your daddy warn you not to play with guns?”

Sam starts to slide a hand into his pocket. A simple lift of her arm stops him. A flick of her wrist and suddenly he’s slammed to his knees. The amulet spins through the air and skids to a halt by the gun as Sam’s forced down and held there, visibly fighting for control. 

“Bitch!” A single step is all Dean manages. Abruptly he stands quite still, each breath burning his lungs, teeth clenched tight, though he forces out some words. “Cheap tricks, bitch. Guess you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel just for us.”

She laughs. “Oh, I almost like you! You’re so… Winchester.”

“Now I’m all overcome.” Even as he speaks, Dean’s checking on Sam – who’s still struggling against whatever’s holding him down – and scoping for some way out of this. He settles for a nod toward the motionless figure sitting on the altar. “What about him. He alive?”

“Alive?” The air shimmers as she moves across the room to be at John Winchester’s side. “Yes. For now.” She strokes his face, dragging a talon tip close to his open eye. He doesn’t so much as flinch. She looks up, slanting eyes glowing. “Still alive.”

Dean struggles, finds a deep breath and looks straight at her. “Ok, come on – now that you’ve got all of us, what do you want?”

“This. John Winchester finally realizing that everything he’s worked for is… nothing. That he has nothing.”

So their father was not only alive but aware. Dean’s glance skims over the still form. There’s no obvious damage, but the memory of his father screaming in his head is so vivid that he shivers through a rush of rage. Clamping it down, he meets her red, inhuman eyes, and asks the one question that’s eating at his brain. “Why him?”

“He hunts us. Is that a good enough answer?”

“No. Lots of people hunt filth like you.”

“True.”

“What then?”

“Because he was so proud – and so overpoweringly righteous!”

“Righteous?” Dean gasps at the ridiculousness of her statement. “Come on, in a world stuffed full of Republicans you pick on dad?”

“Yes. He thought he was so pure. So perfect. So honorable.” She glances lasciviously at Dean. “And then he wasn’t.”

He quells the flinch. “You made him do…all that…to me?”

“Made? Never. We simply guided him toward something he was already capable of. He never had to act on those impulses, Dean. Never had to _do_ anything.”

There’s laughter in Dean’s throat, but no amusement. Gods, his life was screwed before he was even born. “Why didn’t you just kill him?”

“How exactly would that have been fun? You see, it has been fun, watching him fuck up his life. Watching Mr. Moral High-Ground get all confused about right and wrong. He loved fucking you, Dean. He really did. I really don’t think he was happier than when you were on your knees being such an obedient little boy. Shame you kept him away from Sammy. We’d have enjoyed watching that too – after all, three is such a pretty number. Such a wasted opportunity, because, other than that one teensy detail, the Winchesters have been the _best_ entertainment.”

A lift of her hand releases Dean, and he stumbles forward, catching himself before he falls. He glances down, sees Sam sweating, his whole body shaking with effort as he fights her control. The rush of arousal that she’s pumping through into him is making it almost impossible to think, but he lifts his head, wipes a hand over his mouth and nods.

“OK, what d’you want now? Because if you were going to kill us you’d have done it.”

She steps around the altar. Close up he can smell her musk; sex and lust, sweat and limitless craving. Her body is almost human – apart from the scales and the hair that’s more like tendrils of seaweed. Without the scales she might have been beautiful. Horrendous, appalling, evil as a single creature can possibly be, but... He can imagine licking her up-tilted breasts; almost hear her moan as she writhes underneath him. Which he knows is something she’s making him feel. Knows it, but can’t fight, though he tries. Which only makes her laugh while his whole body shudders with enforced pleasure. Lips parting, he moans silently as the full force of her will burns through him.

“Now you understand.” Her smile is wide, full of razor-sharp teeth. “I’m going to enjoy playing with you. I might not even kill you afterwards. Not all female predators eat their prey. Not immediately, anyway.”

“Sure.” He shudders. “Get on with it.” Great. Whatever. He can do this. “Do whatever you want to me, but let Sam go.”

“So, if I was going to let anyone go. If I was going to find some speck of clemency and let someone go, you’d chose your brother –” she emphasizes the word, making it sound utterly obscene. “– over your father.” Licking her lips she bends, and whispers in John’s ear: “Daddy dearest, you really shouldn’t have made your eldest son’s life quite such a misery, should you?”

As her mouth brushes his ear, John’s body quivers. His lips part slightly, as if he’s trying to say something. Sweat trickles down his face. There’s a part of Dean, the part that’s twisted up with love and need and a thousand barbaric emotions, that’s glad. Glad that he’s suffering, but the rest of him is floundering to find a way to save Sam. There’s no question. Sam matters. No one else.

He grits his teeth and knows he shouldn’t have mentioned Sam. Shouldn’t have. Too late for recriminations. With a silent curse, he tries for submissive. “Please…” 

“Beg!”

He doesn’t even know her name. How can you beg without a name? “Please… just let him go.” The words are like glue in his mouth. “Please, I’ll do anything, but spare Sam.”

“Pathetic.” She stalks towards him, until he can smell the sweet acridity of her breath. “Try again!”

Graceful as he can, he kneels. “Please, mistress, I beg you to let him go free from this. I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Please…”

“I don’t think you’re trying!”

“Mistress, please! I’m begging with everything I am, just let Sam go! Please!”

“Time’s up!” She clicks her talons and he freezes once again into forced immobility. “Too boring. And too needy. You really would do anything for him; abase yourself in any way.” Her hand strokes down his chest, talons slicing through the layers of his clothing to tear into his skin. “You’d fuck and suck and crawl, wouldn’t you?”

His voice still works, though it sounds like a strangled whisper. “Yes.”

“Do anything, no matter how foul or perverse.”

“Yes.”

Her hand moves and cups his face. “So pathetic.” He can smell his own blood on her flesh. Smell the heat and musk rising from her groin: the scent so overwhelming that it takes a moment for him to register what she means. “And so very boring.” 

The room spins queasily around him. Through a haze of despair, his voice scratchy with fear, he asks something he already knows the answer to. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean that you don’t interest me. I want something I can break – not something already broken.” Bending down, she hisses close to his ear. “Sammy’s much more interesting than you.”

“Don’t!”

“Don’t?”

“Please. Me. Take me.”

“I told you – you’re worthless to me. But your brother…” Her nipples stiffen, and both breasts swell into fullness. “I’ll take him and break him. And because you care for him so much, I’ll even let you watch...”

Not Sam. Not with the things Dean knows she’ll want done. The things she’ll want to do. The thought alone is enough to make him close to vomiting. It’s all his fault. He should have played her better. Made sure she chose him and didn’t even notice Sam.

“Please…”

Forced into immobility, muscles ripping as he struggles, he’s helpless as she straightens and casually strokes his head, talons sliding down his neck as she steps close, her sex at his eye level, the mass of dark curls dripping with milky drops of arousal. The smell makes him giddy as the thick miasma of pheromones and lust seeps into his head, making his balls ache and his cock stretch pathetically into the confines of his jeans.

“See?” She takes another step and the springy curls brush against his nose. “A little work and you’d beg to fuck me. You’re so easy. Though after all that training I suppose I shouldn’t blame you.” She considers him. “But no. I do anyway! Come, prove how much you want to save your brother – bark like a bitch in heat!”

From nowhere the urge to bark is there, just at the back of his throat. More than anything, he needs to bark and howl until she lets him pleasure her. Fuck her. He can see himself doing it, rutting into her flesh, screaming as he comes and comes. It takes every ounce of control he owns just to keep his mouth shut. To not give in. With a tenacity that leaves him shaking, he clings to the belief that he won’t give in – won’t give her the satisfaction of winning. Neither the images nor the feelings are his own. She’s pumping it all into his brain, up through his cock and balls and into his veins. 

Another inch and his face would be buried in her cunt.

Torn by conflicting impulses, he groans. Part of him wants to taste her – the rest of him wants to bite her heart out and torch her bones. Anger, yes. He welcomes it. Embraces it. Anything not to succumb completely to the horrific lust she’s forcing him to feel. Somehow he arches back, an agonizing inch backwards that brings sweat dripping down his face. He can’t… Sight blurring, he bites his tongue, tastes blood.

He’s not strong enough. Yet he knows if he does this he won’t survive. Not whole. Not as himself. He’ll be her puppy – her bitch.

Laughter feels like a hammer slamming into his skull. Again and again, beating into his brain. His sight blurs, then breaks into fragments.

Very slowly, his lips part. And his tongue stretches forward.

He’s sobbing. She’ll force this act on him, then start on Sam. Fuck knows what she’s already done to John. A failure. He is a total failure. Such an eager puppy, eager to taste her even while his mind screams and howls in disgust and rage. He leans forward.

And the instant his tongue touches flesh, she steps away, laughing.

“So pathetic! Look at yourself – such a slut!” She slaps his face, the sudden crack of skin on skin shockingly loud. “Whore!” Another slap. He rocks to one side, head snapping back as he bites his tongue. Again. Blood fills his mouth and he looks up, gasping for breath, for a moment bewildered, completely unable to understand why she’s punishing him for doing something she’s forced him to do. Then realization clicks into place. This was about humiliation. A slow teaser on the path to breaking him. 

The next slap sends him sprawling. And he wonders if, after all, breaking isn’t something she’s bothered about – that she’ll kill him here and now instead.

“Stop it!” 

A voice that sounds so twisted, it takes him a second to realize it’s Sam’s. 

“Leave him!”

God, Sammy… Dean levers himself onto an elbow. Sam’s broken from her control. He’s facing off from her, almost incandescent with rage.

“What?” Loud as a clap of thunder, her question makes the room shudder.

“I said stop it! Stop hurting him!”

For a brief moment the demon is almost taken aback. Then she smiles, and her forked tongue slips lasciviously around her lips. With a gesture of one hand she curls her fingers at Dean. 

Pain, like lava, floods through him. He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t. Won’t. But…

She meets Sam’s eyes. “Make me.”

And suddenly Sam is glowing. Dean’s not sure if the pain is making him see things, but Sam is golden. When he lifts his hand light flows from it. The demon screams – and the world shimmers into fire.

It’s as if a storm erupts in the underground chapel. A storm. Or a volcanic eruption. Buffeted by the power that’s ripping through the room, Dean finds the wall and clings to it. In flashes of lightning, he can see Sam, standing upright, his skin and hair sparking energy like fireworks. Sulphur stink fills the air, along with crack after crack of power beating against power. Almost deafened, Dean wraps his arms over his head and holds on to what sanity he has, as Sam’s eyes begin to bleed.

The room groans; brick and stone giving way under the onslaught. Plaster dust cascades down.

“Sam?”

Somehow, he hears the voice. John’s voice. Peering across the contorted air, Dean sees him, on his knees, panting for breath as he stares at his youngest son fighting a demon. And winning.

“Dad!” Dean has to shout. Even then it’s as if John doesn’t hear him. But whatever Sam is doing – or whatever Sam is – he can’t be distracted. Reaching forward, Dean calls his father’s name again. “Dad! Get over here!”

Out of the way. Out of Sam’s line of sight. If Sam can still see, of course. The third time he calls out, John hears him. As the battle rages, clumps of plaster falling around them, he starts to crawl to Dean. Though it’s like he’s moving though molasses, fighting for every inch of floor. By the time he reaches Dean’s outstretched hand, he’s gasping for breath, his lips cracked, his face grey with dust. Dean grabs him, pulls him. John slams back against the wall, groaning, his eyes fixed on the sight before them. “What is he?”

There’s fear in John’s voice. Awe and a little horror. It’s the horror that Dean hears, and he almost spits his answer. “Your _son_!”

He turns away. Forces himself to stare into the maelstrom. Sam’s face is dripping blood, he’s vibrating like a high-wire strung way too tight. As if he’s at the limit of his strength.

Sam can’t lose. It’s a battle Dean had no idea could even be fought, but now – now he wants to win. By any means. Swallowing dryly, he tries to reach forward with his mind. To find that part of him that’s Sam’s. The part he’s never really been too sure about. Flinging every part of himself open, he offers it all to Sam.

_Come on, Sammy. Use me…_

He doesn’t even know if Sam can. But if they’re going to win anything other than a millennium of torture in Hell, Sam has to beat her. 

_Sam, I’m here!_

As he watches, Sam stumbles. Her laughter rises about the cacophony of the battle and Dean knows she thinks she’s won. But Sam’s there, in his head.

Images tumble one upon the other. Things they’ve seen, things Sam’s done. Images forced upon Sam by her, snapshots of horror so vile he can’t think about them, can’t let himself really think about them at all. He forces it all away, and focuses on showing Sam. On being willing.

Somehow, Sam understands. Dean feels the surge of triumph that lifts Sam’s sagging head as the energy channels into him. Through his bruises, Dean grins, and welcomes Sam in, offering more, he pushes himself into Sam. All the energy he is. All the power he has, given with a despairing mental cry – _Take it. Use it!_

Sam does.

The world turns gold. Burning up, lifting off the floor, the demon screams. Blackened skin scorching from inhuman bones, she twists and writhes. But doesn’t die. All that they have, isn’t quite enough. She – _it_ – hangs in the air, and its eye-sockets begin to glow. The stench of sulphur becomes overwhelming, choking him, clogging the air.

She can’t win. Can’t… Panting, almost blind, Dean shoves more of himself at Sam. Desperately trying to bolster his brother’s fading power. Sam shudders, takes it – but falls to his knees. The gold starts to fade. 

A scream of hopelessness twists in Dean’s throat. He can’t do any more. Has no more. Except…

Careless of himself, he flings his last dregs of energy towards Sam. A terrible, despairing gesture that he’s sure will be his last. But, like rain in the desert, life pours into him. Floods through him and out to Sam. There’s a hand clasping his own. Giving. He glances around, and meets his father’s pain-racked eyes.

 _I’m sorry…_ The words are mouthed. Dean nods. Accepts. And turns back, gritting his teeth as their energy joins and he thrusts it into the battle.

Sam arches back, arms wide, screaming, and the demon rips apart. Black dust lifts, swirls up into a vortex. It spins for a moment, then burns. Each dust mote sparking red, flaring brilliantly before turning into nothing.

:::

Silence.

Dean lifts his head from the plaster strewn floor. He coughs, spits a glutinous mix of blood and dust from his mouth. Slowly, he gathers all his limbs. One leg’s tangled up. He tugs it. Then realizes something’s lying on it. Creaking like an old man, he shifts and looks down. His father is lying half across his legs. A deadweight. So numb he’s not really sure he’s feeling anything, Dean presses a hand to John’s filthy neck. It takes a moment for him to work out the signals that are being sent up from his fingers. But, yeah, there’s a pulse. _Alive_. Dean smiles. More or less.

Heaving John’s arm away takes a lot of strength. Panting, he manages it then looks across the devastated room to the sprawled length of Sam’s body. It isn’t that far. Really. But it takes him a while to crawl across. There have been times in his life when he’s been without hope. Or he thought there had been. None of them compare to this. 

He’s certain Sam’s dead.

Certain. So sure that as he crawls, he’s crying. Cursing his own weakness, the demon, life and God. Inch by inch he covers the ripped and rubble covered floor. Sam’s so still. It takes every jot of courage that Dean possesses just to lift his hand and feel for a pulse.

The numbness breaks. He sobs out loud, and rests his head on Sam’s crooked arm. There’s so much emotion in him. Too much. He shivers when a hand brushes over his head. Alive. 

Alive!

“Hey.” Sam sounds weak as a newborn kitten, his voice hardly more than a mew.

“Hey, yourself.” Dean wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Since when could you do that glowy thing?”

“Dunno. What glowy thing?”

“You. Glowing. Pretty. Like you belonged on a fucking Christmas tree.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. Meant you beat the sucker.”

“I did?” Under his head, Sam’s body shifts a little. The hand carding through his hair jerks. “Sure?”

“Yep. The fucker went up in dust and ashes.”

“Cool. Dad?”

“Alive.”

“So… we made it?”

“Guess so. Though I think you might be an angel, or something.”

“Right.” The word’s drawn out in disbelief.

“You didn’t have wings though.”

“Can’t be an angel then.”

“No?”

“No.”

There’s a space of time while they just lie there. Then Dean starts to haul himself up. Sitting at Sam’s side, he wipes a hand over his own gritty face, then offers the hand out. Sam clasps it and pulls himself up, so he’s sitting too.

“Ouch.”

Checking his brother over, Dean decides he’ll do. They’re exhausted, but they’ll live. Hell, that’s enough to almost make him smile. “Anything in particular?”

“No. Just everything.”

“Me too.”

“Man, I’m thirsty.” Wiping his mouth, Sam leans forward. “Hey. Thanks.”

“Yeah, I did so fucking much!”

“Couldn’t have killed it without you.” His eyes flicker to where their father is sitting up against the wall, looking dazed. “Or him.”

“Who’d of thought.” Dean looks back at Sam. Sam shrugs. “Maybe he’ll believe us now.” He hesitates, then smiles. “Not that it matters. Come on. New York is waiting.” Leaning in, he kisses Dean’s lips. He tastes of dust and sweat. Blood too. Dean could eat him alive. Alive. Yeah. They are. And even if it takes him a lifetime of trying, they’re both going to stay that way.

 

The End


End file.
